


Skinny Love

by manticsky



Series: La vie en rose [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticsky/pseuds/manticsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evolution of Sherlock and Molly's relationship through songs. </p><p>Featuring: Birdy, Frank Sinatra, Marina and the Diamonds, James Vincent McMorrow, Flight Facilities, Ed Sheeran, The XX, Hozier, and Lykke Li.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skinny Love - Birdy

**Author's Note:**

> ((Trigger Warning: Suicide Attempt, Suicide Note, Drug Use, Drug Abuse, Depression, Alcohol Use))

“ _Come on, skinny love, just last the year_

_Pour a little salt, we were never here_

_My my my, my my my, my my_

_Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer.”_

Skinny Love – Birdy

***

Molly Hooper loved her job. It was everything she'd dreamed of since she was just a girl in uni. Her professors had laughed at her, claiming she hadn't the nerve to saw open dead bodies and keep a clear head, but she'd showed them all. It was her greatest accomplishment, and she didn't regret it for a moment, even if she'd had to sacrifice a social life and romance. It was worth it.

The thing was, ever since this Sherlock Holmes had started coming 'round, he'd made her life difficult. She didn't know him all that well; he seemed standoffish (and that was really just Molly's polite way of saying “arsehole to everyone he came into contact with”) but she was an optimist. Even Mr. Gilbert, her grumpy next-door neighbor, had his good qualities. Surely this rude boy in an expensive coat couldn't be all that bad, right?

She'd heard from Detective Inspector Lestrade that he was a druggie. You'd never guess it, to look at him. But when he rolled up his sleeves in concentration, she could see the pin-pricks on the insides of his arms. He'd caught her staring, once, and promptly pulled his sleeves down and left without a word.

Sometimes she worried about him. Addicts were depressingly common in the morgue. She wondered if he knew any of them, if they'd been friends. She wondered if he even had any friends.

Of course, she knew he had Detective Inspector Lestrade. (“Greg,” he'd said, flashing a smile, “you can call me Greg.”) She didn't know the exact nature of the friendship, but it was enough to allow him access to Bart's on occasion.

 

One morning Dete- _Greg_ came in with a list of bodies he needed to see, Sherlock Holmes tailing him, as always. He seemed a bit off... the regular swagger to his step was missing, he was quietly following Greg rather than trying to take the lead, like usual, and, most obvious to anyone with medical training, his physical appearance. His eyes were dilated, his scarf draped haphazardly around his neck (not tied in the usual way), and he leaned against everything: the wall, the table, the stools, as if he was having trouble supporting his own weight. One look at Greg let her know that she wasn't alone in the knowledge: he'd gotten loaded earlier.

The Detective Inspector's jaw was clenched in anger and disappointment. Still, he went on with his duties, making notes about the bodies and the similarities in their deaths. Sherlock sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. It wasn't until he'd finished that he looked Molly directly in the eyes and apologized for what was about to happen. She understood, and left the room.

As the doors to the morgue swung closed, she could hear Greg's voice echoing off the tile walls, and Sherlock Holmes's lazy remarks. She continued walking until she got to her office, trying to get some work done and not think about what was happening.

Several minutes later, she heard shouting. She sprang from her chair and peered out of her office window to see Greg slamming Sherlock Holmes onto a table and handcuffing him. As he struggled, his eyes lifted up from the table to meet hers through a crack in the blinds, and Molly felt she was seeing something she was really not supposed to be seeing.

As Greg escorted Sherlock Holmes out of the hospital, Molly focused harder than ever on her reports, not even looking up once.

***

At exactly 7:34 that same night, Molly received a call from Greg, who had her home phone number because they were two adults and it wasn't illegal to exchange numbers with a married man, was it?

“Hi, Molly, how ya doin?” He was trying very hard to seem nonchalant, she could tell.

“I'm pretty well. And yourself?”

“Good, good. Listen, could I ask you a huge favor?” _Ah_ , she thought. _There it is._

“Well, Greg, you know that depends on the favor.” She gave a pathetic chuckle, trying to lighten her tone.

“You know that bloke Sherlock Holmes? The one from today?”

“Yeah, of course. What's wrong?”

“Well, I sorta left him on a bad note. He's a good guy, really, he is, it's just the drugs talking. Anyway, I released him from custody and I haven't heard from him since this morning. I've called him several times and he's not answering.”

“Okay... then what did you need me for?” A sense of foreboding washed over her as she began to realize where he was going with all this.

“Could you, maybe, go over there and talk to him? Let him know I'm willing to work with him? It's just, he's got a brilliant mind, and so much potential. I hate to see him waste it. Could you do that for me?”

Molly tried not to groan audibly. “Sorry to seem rude, but why me?”

“I wouldn't ask unless I had no other choice. The wife's dragging me to one of her family functions and there is literally no way I can get out of it short of a bloody murder. I hate to have to beg, Molly, really I do, but-”

She sighed. “Alright, fine. I'll go. Where does he live?”

“Ha ha! You're a gem, Molly. I owe you big time. He lives at 221B Baker Street. If he's difficult you can get his landlady, Martha Hudson, lives downstairs. She'll straighten him out.”

The cab ride there was surprisingly quick. At the very mention of Baker Street, the cab driver laughed. “Off to see ol' Sherlock Holmes, is it, love? Wot are you, his new girlfriend?” She didn't answer, and sent him on his way when she got out.

She turned around and immediately wished she'd worn something nicer than sweatpants. She politely rapped on the door and was surprised to see a matronly woman in curlers and a bathrobe open the door.

“Hello, dear, can I help you?” She smiled, and Molly couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes lived next to this woman.

After a brief exchanging of courtesies and back-stories, Mrs. Hudson led Molly to the door which would grant her access to 221B. She excused herself, as she claimed she was “in the middle of her afternoon soother.” (Molly would think back later, and wonder if the older woman's eyes were actually bloodshot. Surely not.)

She stood there for a long while, pondering the correct way to enter into Sherlock Holmes's home. She knocked, and was greeted with silence. She knocked again. Nothing.

Finally she realized that it was almost 8:30 and she was missing the rerun of Top Gear. She opened the door and marched up the stairs. It was... eerily quiet, and dark. Not dark as in, “it's nighttime and the streetlights shine through the windows” dark, but more a “closing all the curtains to hide from the world” dark. Fear crept up her spine and into her throat, but heaven forbid, Molly Hooper cut up dead people for a living! She fumbled around a bit for a light switch.

When she finally did find one, the resulting explosion of light blinded her for a moment. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust as she turned around.

What she saw made her scream. Or rather, she tried to scream, only no sound would come out of her mouth.

Sherlock Holmes was slumped over his kitchen table, a sickly bluish color, with a needle sticking from his arm. Next to him lay an elegant cream envelope with a wax seal.

For a moment, she was frozen in place, horrified. The next moment, however, her years of medical training forced her into action. She felt for a pulse with one hand while the other searched around the debris on the counter for a phone.

She didn't remember finding the phone, or dialing for help, but somehow her mouth was moving, giving the person on the other end of the line information on Sherlock Holmes's condition. Once it was clear that he was alive, and that help was on its way, the phone fell to the table, forgotten.

She pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, suddenly exhausted. No thoughts would come to her mind other than the fact that she was sitting next to Sherlock Holmes and he might be dying or dead. Her attention then snapped to the envelope on the table. Surely he didn't...

The sounds of voices downstairs startled her, and without thinking she grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in her bag, just moments before a small, unhappy parade of people burst through the door.

***

She was still shaking when she closed the door to her lonely flat that night. Bed seemed so inviting, but with the way her hands were trembling, she could tell she'd need to break into her wine reserves. It wasn't something she did often, but this situation seemed to demand it.

Three and a half glasses later, she felt much better. Sprawled across her couch, glass in hand, she let the stress of the night slip away. She'd deal with it all tomorrow.

She was just about to go to bed when she remembered the envelope.

Dumping her glass in the sink, she reached inside her tacky kitten-covered bag and pulled out the small piece of paper, only slightly wrinkled from where she'd laid on it in the cab. It wasn't addressed to anyone, and the seal looked like it may have been made with a thumb. She plopped back down on the couch with it, unsure of how to proceed.

On one hand, it would be very rude to read someone's personal correspondence. It would be an invasion of his privacy that should under no circumstances be committed by someone with such upstanding morals as herself. It was simply wrong.

On the other hand, it might be nothing at all. It might be something for Greg, or even for her. It might be a grocery list. (It was a long shot, but still. Sherlock Holmes was a weird bloke.) And also, she was a wee bit drunk and very curious.

She opened it with a butter knife, careful not to rip the paper.

What first struck her was how beautiful it looked. He had actually sat down and wrote out a letter in gorgeous cursive, almost calligraphic handwriting. She was impressed, until she started to read.

_“February 21_ _st_ _._

_It is time. I have mulled this over for far too long. It has come to my attention that my actions not only embarrass but also hurt those I care about most. I will never use heroin again, save this last time._

_Mummy, I am so sorry. Please know that this is not your fault. I love you more than you shall ever know, and hope that one day you will understand._

_Dad, thank you for everything. Thank you for believing in me, and I am sorry that I let you down so many times. I will not disappoint you any more._

_Mycroft._

_Mrs. Hudson, you have been so good to me, and I have never deserved it. I have left you my rent for the next six months. Please use it to go on a nice holiday. You may keep my violin if you like._

_Detective Inspector Lestrade, I am so sorry for my actions today. They were inexcusable, and you were right to do what you did. I did not mean anything I said. You have been nothing but a loyal friend to me, and I want you to know that you did help me. I am simply beyond saving. Please take Poor Yorick, as he will need a new home. Give my sincerest best wishes to Mike Stamford and that little girl who works in the morgue._

_I have nothing more to say, except that I am sorry for all the pain I have caused. I hope to find peace in death that I have never had in life._

_Sincerely,_

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

Molly wiped the tears from her face with the back of her sleeve. How horribly she had misjudged him. They all had.

The next morning, Greg called her to let her know that Sherlock was okay, and he'd agreed to go into rehab. In the end, Molly decided not to tell anyone about the suicide note. It would only embarrass him, and cause pain where it didn't need to be. He'd agreed to get clean, so maybe he'd had a change of heart. He wouldn't want to know that she'd seen his most intimate feelings, anyhow. A sensible girl would burn it, and destroy the evidence.

And if you asked her, that's what she would say she did with it. And there may or may not be a locked box in her sock drawer containing a single piece of paper and a beautiful cream envelope.

 


	2. The Way You Look Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Way You Look Tonight - Frank Sinatra
> 
> Now that Sherlock has returned from his "holiday", Mrs. Hudson throws him a little welcoming party. 
> 
> Boring.

“ _Someday, when I'm awfully low_

_When the world is cold_

_I will feel a glow just thinking of you_

_And the way you look tonight.”_

The Way You Look Tonight – Frank Sinatra

***

It had literally been a day since he was released from his... holiday, and people were already annoying him again. He and Mrs. Hudson had apparently been conspiring against him.

They were having a party. For him. And they hadn't even the decency to tell him.

So now there he was, in the middle of Baker Street, in bloody _house shoes and a dressing gown_ , while the party carried on.

It wasn't much of a party. To be honest, it was more of a small get-together than anything. There were only six people there (willingly), and two of them had a direct hand in the planning. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson apparently planned the whole thing while he was away, and sent out invitations a month in advance.

The guest list boasted such characters as the party planners, Mike Stamford, Ray (the obese, halitosis-suffering cafeteria worker), and Mrs. Hudson's horrifically near-sighted sister Mrs. Gifford. Dull.

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, making observations simply to keep himself from bursting in tears of boredom. Lestrade's wife was mad at him. (He kept glancing at his phone and frowning.) Mike was trying to find a polite way to ask for a fourth slice of cake. (Keeps picking crumbs from his plate, glancing nervously around.) In the corner, Mrs. Hudson and her sister were tittering about something mundane, Mrs. Gifford's thickly-rimmed glasses repeatedly falling down her nose.

Were there alcohol involved, Sherlock would have poured himself a glass of something strong and smelly. However, Mrs. Hudson apparently found it in poor taste to include a psychoactive drug at the “Welcome Home” party of a man away at rehab.

He was just about to excuse himself to his bedroom (and from there hopefully crawl out a window and escape this dreadful party) when a noise echoed through the room. It was a knock: soft, polite, and unsure. Mrs. Hudson leapt to open the door, revealing what Sherlock immediately recognized as the form of Molly Hooper (he'd learned her name when Lestrade visited him in rehab.)

Only, it wasn't. Well, it _was_ Molly Hooper, as in, she was definitely standing in the doorway, but it _wasn't_ in the sense that she was not wearing her signature white coat or hideous brown loafers. Her hair was _not_ pulled back from her face (instead pulled over one shoulder) and she was most decidedly _not_ wearing her normal hideous attire (instead a knee-length baby blue dress with a conservative neckline and quarter-sleeves). For reasons unknown to Sherlock, something about the sight made his stomach feel like it had flipped over. A strange, almost burning sensation shot through his chest and arms as she looked over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder and gave him a shy smile.

He looked to the floor, and Molly Hooper did not bother him for the rest of the night.

The celebration ended as evening turned to night, and Mrs. Gifford loudly announced that she needed to go to sleep or she would pass out on the drive home. Mrs. Hudson gently reminded her that she was staying downstairs, and hadn't driven a car since the late seventies. Lestrade made some remark about “getting home to the wife”, and everyone else sort of dispersed until it was only Mrs. Hudson, himself, and Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper in a blue dress that made her look like not-Molly Hooper. He couldn't decide whether it was good or bad.

Mrs. Hudson wished her a safe trip home and ushered her to the door. Molly Hooper took one last glance back to Sherlock. Their eyes met for a moment, and then she was gone.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson sighed after a moment, “She's quite the pretty one, don't you agree?” She chuckled and set off to the kitchen, obviously not expecting an answer.

“Hmm.” He pushed up and out of his chair, headed for his bedroom.

***

For the next several weeks, he busied himself with conducting experiments on why that dress has such an effect on him. He found the dress online and, from the price, could only deduce that it was a knock-off, unless she had someone in her life that would spend over five hundred pounds on a dress for her. He knew she would never spend money so frivolously.

Days and days he spent, when not on a case, reliving that three second moment when she smiled at him. Why would she smile like that? What did she know about him? He conducted research on the tells in a person's facial expression when they are being secretive, but he couldn't for the life of him think what she could possibly be secretive about.

One thing that his research could not explain to him, however, was the jolt of pain that seared through him at the sight of her. Still, it wasn't exactly an unpleasant pain. He tried to simulate it with electric shock, but to no avail.

After all of this, Sherlock found that Molly's drawer in his mind palace was upgraded to entire bureau, and then again to a small room. This small room of hers soon became one of Sherlock's favorites; enough so that he moved it to replace his room on exotic mushrooms, which was closer to the heart of the palace and easier to access. Whenever he was particularly bored or uneasy, all it took was a simple stroll down the corridor and he knew he would find her waiting in that blue dress, shy smile directed at him.

He made visiting the morgue a priority on cases, and always (discreetly) made sure that Molly Hooper would be there. There was something about her... he didn't know what, but something in his ~~heart~~ logic made him feel like, when the time came, she would count. 

 


	3. I Am Not a Robot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the first time Sherlock has bothered Molly at work, but it is the first time they argue about it.

“ _You've been acting awful tough lately_

_Smoking a lot of cigarettes lately_

_But inside, you're just a little baby”_

  * “I Am Not a Robot” by Marina and The Diamonds




***

“Good morning, Mr. Pavlovich. Of course, it can't be that good of a morning for you. Sorry about that stroke, my goodness. Your wife said you were working too hard, and I'd say you should've listened to her. Ah well. All in the past. Let's crack in, eh? I'll grab the bone saw.”

For some reason, Molly Hooper did not have the best of luck in the dating game. She'd had her first kiss in secondary school, a horrible, braces-heavy affair that neither she nor her schoolmate wanted to repeat.

After that, she didn't date until college, when a curly-headed, dark-skinned football player with fantastic legs swept her off her feet. They moved in together briefly, until Samantha decided she wanted to play professionally and tour the world. Thankfully, they were able to salvage their friendship and still meet up for Thai food whenever Sam visits London.

With a semi-shattered heart and a father dying of cancer, Molly Hooper became as frigid as a December morn. Even her brother likened her to the Virgin Mary, earning him a smart slap across the head. Still, her lack of a social life assisted her in completing her medical program, earning her a much wanted position (in her group of peers) at St. Bartholomew's.

Molly Hooper had been alone for some time now, with no one but a goldfish named Rosencrantz and the occasional phone call from her brother and sister-in-law in Surrey. Not that she really minded, when it came down to it. She had a couple of mates that ate with her in the cafeteria at Bart's. Padma, a gastroenterologist, also sometimes invites her to Girl's Night Out at one of the local pubs. Molly rarely ever goes, but she appreciates the gesture. And Ronnie, the nurse, likes to show her pictures of his cat, who is going to have kittens soon! She's certain that counts as enough social interaction. 

She's not crazy, and Mr. Pavlovich looks like he agrees.

“I need to borrow a healthy colon.” A deep voice from the corner of the room. Did they hear her talking?

“Well you could at least buy me a drink first.” As she turns around, her smile fades. It's Sherlock Holmes, same bloody coat and all. The look on his face could kill.

“Don't make jokes, Molly.” She nods, and looks down to poor old Mr. Pavlovich, blissfully unaware of the awkward tension. Only Sherlock Holmes could make her envy a corpse.

“I'm really not supposed to...” He takes a step closer, and she can feel her pulse pounding. Another step, and she can smell his cologne.  _Dear God._

“Surely you can make an exception, just this once?” He says, almost popping her personal space bubble. She looks around hesitantly. “You look lovely today, by the way.” He smiles, and her heart feels like it's in her throat. She caves.

“Just this once, okay? And I'll need to finish the autopsy first, but then you can take whatever you need.”  _Like me. Please take me._

He pulls up a seat, clearly intending to wait. She clears her throat and breathes, forcing herself back into the zone. Once the scalpel's in her hands, he might as well not even be there.

She works and works until the autopsy is complete, and Mr. Pavlovich is confirmed to have, indeed, suffered a massive stress-induced stroke. Hopefully this would put his children's minds at ease. Molly is pulling off her gloves when she finally remembers the dark clad figure in her peripheral vision. She gestures to the box of sterile gloves and goes to wash her hands, desperately needing to seek a cup of coffee.

She returns around five minutes later, bland cafeteria-grade coffee in its bland, styrofoam cup, to find Sherlock Holmes elbows deep in her patient, sleeves haphazardly rolled up as he tugged violently at something. If her license hadn't been screaming at her from inside her head, she might have found it amusing.

“Stop, stop, stop,” she started, fingers massaging her temples. “Do you actually have any experience removing internal organs in a professional capacity?”

He spun around, and she was horrified to realize that he had ignored her instructions to put on gloves. “Define 'professional capacity'.”

Molly let out a groan. “You're going to make me lose my job one day. Go wash your hands, I'll get you the colon.”

“I hardly think that this boring banker with the onset of diabetes will mind a bit of rough-housing. He clearly never got any from his wife.” Sherlock sauntered to the sink, and Molly could _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

“That might have something to do with the fact that Mrs. Pavlovich is recovering from surgery caused by the ovarian cancer she's been battling for the last decade.” Molly tried to put as much venom in the sentence as she could.

Behind her, Sherlock simply sighed.

“You've got one of the most brilliant minds I've ever known, Sherlock, but it might be better served if you even pretended like you were capable of sympathy every now and again.”

After a moment of silence, Molly feared she might have been toeing the line. Suddenly, in a gust of wind, Sherlock was next to her.

“And you think by my showing _sympathy_ ,” he sneered, “that criminals will stop commiting crimes?”

Molly was frozen, petrified. “Well, no-”

“Or that murder victims will just rise from the dead, if only I show them _sympathy_?”

Molly huffed. “You know that's not-”

“Right. I should only be nice around boring people like you, with your eggshell emotions and pathetically absent social life?” He was practically boring a hole in the side of her head. She fought back tears and refused to look him in the face.

“As the saying goes, 'you catch more flies with honey'.” She attempted to collect herself, and not say anything more to anger him.

Unfortunately, it failed. He slapped his left arm down on the table in front of her, sleeve still rolled up. “I'm not trying to catch flies, I'm trying to catch criminals.”

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but stopped when her eye caught a small, circular scar, nestled right in the crook of his exposed arm. That night all those months ago came flooding back to her, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were full of grief and pity.

Sherlock snatched his arm away like the table was fire, and didn't look at her while he rolled his sleeves down and pulled his coat over his shoulders.

He was halfway to the door when her voice echoed off the tile floor, “I was there that night, you know.”

He stopped, sighed. “I know.”

The creak of the swinging door was all he left behind him.

 


	4. Higher Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes an interesting discovery while in his mind palace.

“Think about it

There must be higher love

Down in the heart and in the stars above.

Without it, we're just wasting time.

Look inside your heart,

I'll look inside mine.”

  * “Higher Love” by James Vincent McMorrow




 

***

He knew that he'd put his cigarette slipper under his chair. Sherlock stuck his hand under the recliner, searching blindly, and found only dust. Sighing, he wiped his hand on his bathrobe and plopped down on the floor, sulking like a child.

Sometimes Sherlock regretted offering his flat to John Watson. He was too neat, too quiet, kept things like _jam_ and _hummus_ in the fridge, and kept dirty magazines under his mattress like a teenager. (“Why were you looking under my mattress?!” John had cried indignantly, and Sherlock tried to explain that he was only compiling data on the habits of unattached, lonely men in their 30s, as they, statistically, are the demographic most likely to commit a violent crime. For some reason, this caused John to turn beet red and storm off.)

John did that a lot, lately. Ever since he met that Sarah woman, it seemed like he was just looking for an excuse to spend the night with her. Odd, really. 

Sherlock turned to his side and curled up, like a fetus would. He decided that John must have taken the slipper and hid it somewhere, knowing it would irritate him. 

Three options now. One, he could attempt to track down the slipper using his knowledge of John's hiding places, and then smoke the whole pack in his room. That way he could have the nicotine, and also the satisfaction of making everything in John's room smell bad. It would be fun. However, he would have to get up and move from this spot, which was surprisingly comfortable, and actually go  _do_ it. Not fun. Move on.

Option two, he could grab a few patches from his bedside drawer and continue on with his plan of spending the evening deleting the memory of Mycroft's last birthday party to make room for information about the solar system. Again, this would require physical movement, and what were the odds that he would need to know any astronomy in his line of work? Move on.

This left the only remaining option: staying still and retreating into his mind palace. 

He pushed open the grand double doors and stepped into the foyer. As he began walking down the hall, he absentmindedly wondered which room to visit. John's room was out of the question. He was too irritated at him right now, and he didn't feel like listening to  _another_ anecdote starting with “so this one time in uni...”. He could stop by Mrs. Hudson's room, and let her give him the mummy-hugs he loved so much (but would never let her know he enjoyed) and make him some tea. 

As soon as he made up his mind to turn back around to Mrs. Hudson's room, his eye caught a glimpse of something familiar. It was a large, white door, completely out of place in the dark wood hallway. After a moment, he recognized it as the door to the morgue at St. Bartholomew's hospital. He was fairly sure it hadn't been there the last time he had visited. 

He pushed it open with one hand, hearing the soft creak that that particular door made, and stepped inside. 

It was the morgue, only it wasn't. There were no bodies, no medical equipment, and, perhaps most interestingly, a large, cozy armchair holding none other than Molly Hooper. 

She was bent over a book in rapt attention, her loose hair falling over one shoulder and tucked behind her ear. She was wearing the blue dress, the one that he loved. (Wait, what?)

He walked over and sat down in the armchair opposite her, and she looked up, like she had just noticed him. “Oh, hi!” She said cheerily. 

“Hello, Molly.”

“I was just reading this fascinating article about the discovery of the coelocanth, would you like to hear?” She looked so comfortable nestled into the chair, he was almost tempted to say yes, and let her delicate voice coax him to sleep.

“Not tonight, Molly. What are you doing here?”

She smiled. “Why, you put me here, of course.”

“I don't remember doing so.”

“You needed someone to be the physical representation of your scientific knowledge, and you find me more pleasing to look at than Mike Stamford.” Molly closed the book, and stood. “Simple, really. There wasn't much reason for your conscious mind to be included in the decision.”

Sherlock gave a grunt of approval and looked up at her. She was radiant. He had never seen another person who actually looked _better_ under the glow of phosphorescent lighting.

“Of course, if you want to hear about the emotional implications of having me here, you could go visit John's room and let him teach you about the birds and the bees.” She grinned cheekily, and moved to sit across his lap, one arm draped over his shoulder. 

“I'm thirty years old, Molly, I  _know_ about human reproduction, despite what my brother says.” Having her this close to him should make him really uncomfortable, but it didn't. He placed a hand just above her knee, where the hem of her pretty blue dress lay. 

“I'm not talking about your repressed sexual urges, Sherlock, not really. I'm talking about your desperate need for human intimacy. You can't survive without it.” She ran her fingers idly through his hair. 

“I don't need intimacy. I don't want it, I never have. It's a distraction. If I'm going to be the best detective in the world, I need to keep my mind sharp and unoccupied by such things.” He gripped her knee tightly.

“Hmm, like it is right now?” He looked down at himself, and quickly released her. She laughed. “It's okay, Sherlock. You're human. There's nothing wrong with craving affection from the women in your life. You don't have trouble seeking it from Mrs. Hudson or your mother, so why is it so difficult now?”

He sighed. “It's different, and you know it. You're not a motherly figure in my life. I shouldn't even want this from you. Our encounters should be strictly professional, at arms-length.” Somehow his hand had found her knee again. 

She smiled down at him pityingly. “Oh Sherlock, you've wanted me near you since the night you found out I saved your life. The only question is, how are you going to make that happen?” She leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, and then she was gone. 

He opened his eyes, surprised to find himself laying on the floor.  _'That's odd.'_ He peeled his face off the wood floor and looked up. It was daylight. 

“Alright, mate?” John was in the kitchen, doing the dishes. 

Sherlock sat up. “Why didn't you wake me up? I could've done serious damage to my neck sleeping like that!” 

John chuckled. “I tried, but you were out like a light. Snoring, even. I've never seen you sleep so peacefully. Did you know you mumble in your sleep?”

Sherlock rubbed at his sore face, yawning. “Did I say anything interesting?”

“Not that I could tell. Although I'm pretty sure I heard you say something about fish.”

 

 


End file.
